


Your Dirty Mouth

by ekbe_vile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Bottom Castiel, Dom/sub, Duct Tape, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, all Dean can remember is the duct tape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Dirty Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was originally posted on LiveJournal on May 19th, 2010. It takes place immediately after episode 5.08, Changing Channels.

Not that Dean’s been paying attention, but Castiel’s off his game after their run-in with the Trickster, a.k.a., the archangel Gabriel, a.k.a. Douche Bag of the Millennium. And granted, Castiel’s been headed downhill since that whole exploding incident back at Chuck’s, but this is something different, something perhaps a symptom of his fading grace without being an actual element of it.

The angel’s sitting in a chair in their motel room, his trench coat drawn tight, his hands holding it clenched to his knees. Sam’s off somewhere doing Sam Things, and Dean takes the opportunity to crack a beer, lean back on his bed and watch Castiel fidget. Blue eyes scope out the dark corners of the room, flit back and forth restlessly––he pulls his lower lip between his teeth––licks the top one––squirms as his knuckles whiten.

“What’s your deal?” Dean asks, gestures with his beer bottle.

Castiel almost jumps up out of his chair. “I don’t understand,” he shakes his head, but he does not meet Dean’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re twitchier than j-e-l-l-o,” Dean snorts. “Are you all right?”

Castiel shifts, the emphasis most definitely in his hips, squirming, like he’s trying to reach an itch. “I’m fine, Dean,” he lies.

Dean hums under his breath, pretends to be interested in his beer, but really his attention is all on Castiel. Because Dean knows that look, has seen it on frustrated virgin teenagers and Sam, has even worn it on occasion himself. And he can’t help thinking that it’s about damn time as he gets up, sets his beer aside, stretches.

Castiel’s eyes flicker toward him, then away. He keeps his gaze on the ground, and Dean feels a little twitch of desire in his jeans at the sight of a flush risen in the angel’s pale cheeks.

Dean moves closer––close enough that he has to look down at Castiel––close enough that if the angel were to look up from the ground, his eyes would be level with Dean’s crotch. “Where’d that asshole send you?” Dean asks. “The Trickster...he did a number on you, huh?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, at least not in words, but the way Castiel’s breath hitches and he shuts his eyes says so much more.

Dean reaches out, hooks his fingers under Castiel’s chin and turns the angel’s face up. Castiel’s eyes widen, pupils dilated––Dean drags his thumb over the angel’s lower lip, presses his nail into the grooves. Castiel closes his again, takes a shuddering breath as Dean pushes his thumb into his mouth.

It didn’t occur to Dean back on the Technicolor set of that third rate sitcom––he was too busy with the Trickster, too busy fighting for his life to allow what Gabriel did to Castiel to affect him. There had been fear for the angel, and anger, and he wanted to protect Cas the same way the angel had protected him. But in hindsight, all he can remember is the duct tape––the way Castiel’s eyes had flashed, the way blood had dribbled from his nose and over the smooth surface of the gag––

Dean’s fingers move to Castiel’s hair, knot in the dark, feathery locks, grip it tight and use it to turn the angel’s head from side to side. He pulls Castiel against him, lifting his own hips, daring to press Castiel’s face to the now swollen crotch of his jeans.

And Castiel doesn’t turn away, doesn’t resist––eyes closed, leaning gently forward, his lips part and he cautiously mouths at Dean’s cock through the denim.

Dean swallows a groan, pushes Castiel’s head back a little so he can see his angel’s face––see the way Castiel’s lips are red from rubbing against the jeans, a little too dry and wanting. “You have a dirty mouth, Cas,” Dean murmurs. “That’s why the Trickster had to shut you up, huh? Had to teach you a lesson...”

Castiel’s eyes are wide, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Dean,” he whispers, grabs at the hunter’s hips for balance. Then he’s nuzzling into Dean’s crotch of his own accord, pressing and rubbing and Dean has to fight back the sudden urge to dry hump his angel’s face.

“No,” Dean growls, yanks Castiel’s hair hard. “You haven’t earned that.”

Dean doesn’t know where the words come from––what makes him think he has the right to talk to Castiel like that––but his cock is getting harder and the way Castiel squirms and whines seems to indicate the same is true for the angel.

He tugs on Castiel’s hair like a leash, uses it to haul him to his feet. When they’re standing almost eye-to-eye (Dean never really noticed before, that Castiel is shorter than him), he pushes off the trench coat, rips open the white dress shirt. Castiel just stands there, not like a statue––his breath is too short and needy for that––as Dean disrobes him, drags callused hands down the angel’s sides, marvels that without the three layers of clothing Castiel’s slight and lean.

Dean manhandles Castiel over to the bed, pushes him down across the mattress, grabs his hips and lifts and turns and positions him just so before falling between the angel’s legs, grinding his still-clothed erection against Castiel’s naked flesh.

They’re close enough now to share each other’s breath––close enough that Dean would have to only tip his chin a little to press his lips against the angel’s. And Castiel wants it––his pupils are blown with desire and he strains his neck, reaching for Dean’s lips, but the hunter stays deliberately out of reach. 

When Castiel grabs at his head, fingers pushing through his hair and trying to drag him down to force a kiss, Dean has to smack him. Not hard––it would literally hurt Dean more than it would hurt Cas––but meaningfully. He grabs Castiel’s wrists and maneuvers the angel’s hands above his head, pushes them up toward the posts of the bed frame.

“Can’t behave yourself, can you?” Dean rumbles, leans in close––so close to pressing lips to lips––but only nuzzles at Castiel’s throat, touches with his nose and his cheeks and his brow, but never his mouth. His duffel is on the bed beside him, and it’s a simple matter to reach over and grab the handcuffs––simpler than slapping them around Castiel’s wrists, binding them to the headboard, because Cas is an angel and he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, not with Dean. But he lets it happens, murmurs senseless things as he twists his wrists against the metal, not testing, just experiencing them. “Those stay,” Dean teases, flicks Castiel’s nose with his fingertip, “until you can learn some self control.”

“Dean––” 

Castiel’s voice is higher than Dean’s ever heard it, stretched and desperate as he lifts his hips, rubbing against the hunter where they’re still touching below the waist. “Ssh,” Dean scolds him, a hand covering Castiel’s mouth, clamping his jaw shut a little more forcefully than is probably necessary. “Be quiet.”

And there’s a flash of something like defiance in Castiel’s eyes just moments before he sticks his tongue out and licks at Dean’s palm and it should not feel so good, should not make Dean shudder and roll his eyes back as his cock strains against his fly. And there are so many other places he wants to feel that tongue, those lips––grinds down, unconsciously, as he imagines what Cas’s mouth would look like wrapped around his cock––imagines the way the angel would look up at him with those blue, blue eyes––look at him for approval, working so hard to please him.

But there’ll be time for that later. He gives Castiel another smack––this one a little harder––and then he’s back in his duffel, pulling out a roll of a duct tape and, almost as an afterthought, a sock.

He balls the latter up, presents it to Castiel whose eyes widen as he shakes his head.

“I warned you,” Dean teases.

And Castiel whimpers, but he opens his mouth, letting Dean stuff the sock in deep. Then he’s ripping off a strip of duct tape and there’s no mistaking the lust in Castiel’s eyes, the way he breathes hard and fast through his nose. This is what he’s been thinking about, remembering the way Gabriel had gagged him––clearly, the experience had affected Castiel as much as it had Dean.

Now the hunter stretches the strip of tape over Castiel’s mouth, seals his lips closed so that the can’t spit out the sock. When he’s done Castiel makes a muffled noise, something that doesn’t even sound like words, and Dean sits back to admire his work, admire the way Castiel’s jaw muscles are stretched and straining, his cheeks hollowed out, little puffs of breath beading moisture on the tape below his nose.

Dean reaches down to touch himself––gropes senselessly through his jeans, for a moment, before he has the presence of mind to get up and undress. And the whole time Castiel watches him, brows furrowed, eyes unblinking. So Dean takes it slow, though it’s as much torture for him as it is for Castiel, and by the time he’s down to his boxers the angel is whining and writhing and pumping his hips toward Dean as though the hunter hasn’t noticed the throbbing erection there.

“You want it, don’t you?” Dean growls, kneels on the mattress between Castiel’s legs and grasps his balls in one hand. Castiel arches, tosses his head against the pillow, pale flesh glowing with sweat, prickling with sensitivity when Dean reaches up with his other hand to twist and flick at a dusky brown nipple. “Yeah, you do,” Dean grins as Castiel’s body twists and writhes beneath him, uncertain which sensation to follow. “I bet I can make you come without touching you.”

Blue eyes fly open, focus on Dean and Castiel’s making this pleading noise like a baby animal missing its mother.

Dean can’t stand it––has to do something about it, and fast, or he’s gonna lose it––closes his fingers tight around the base of his cock and takes a moment to just breathe, to not see or hear or think about the angel laid out before him. He thinks he should get lube, but that would mean getting up and going into the bathroom and there’s just no time for that, he’s hit with this sudden urgency and spit is good enough and Cas is an angel so it won’t hurt him too bad.

Dean has spit slick fingers inside Castiel before he even has time to think about it, time to be aware of just what he’s doing, and Castiel is undone and breathing hard through his nostrils as Dean stretches him open. “Gonna fuck you, Cas,” Dean mutters, one of the few coherent things that emerge from a long litany of desire and adoration and dirty talk meant for a whore, not an angel. “God, you’re gonna feel so good, you’re gonna make me come so hard, gonna fill you up, Cas––”

Somehow, he replaces his fingers with his cock––lines up with Castiel’s entrance and pushes inside, fucking a little deeper into his angel with each short, firm thrust. And somehow it’s hotter than he imagined, tighter than he imagined, and he groans and fights to steady himself because his thighs are trembling just as much as Castiel’s.

And Castiel is like this being of sensations beneath him, eyes screwed shut, breath coming so fast he can’t possibly be getting enough air. And in quick succession Dean thinks first that Castiel would love sensory depravation, would love the experience of pure feeling, and then second, that they should give breath play a try.

And those two thoughts, combined with the sight of Castiel wrecked, wrists twisting against the cuffs until they’re bleeding on the pillows, teeth locking down on the sock shoved to the back of his throat, urges that hot ball of pleasure up in Dean’s stomach and fuck it, he gives up all pretenses of self-control and pounds into Castiel fast and hard. 

The slap of flesh on flesh, the slick, salty burn of sweat between them, the abstract realization that he and his angel are physically joined, their bodies slotted together below the waist––it’s too much and not enough, but then Castiel moans into his gag and his muscles tighten as cum spurts from his cock, shoots creamy white strings almost up to his chin, and that’s what Dean needs. He groans, lets his head fall between his shoulders, keeps fucking Castiel through his own orgasm so that it just keeps going and going and going and he has to throw his head back and shake himself because it’s more than he can bear and he never, ever wants it to stop.

He collapses on top of Castiel, their heartbeats thudding hard through their chests as though trying to reach each other. He lets himself grow soft inside of Castiel––feels the spill of cum as his cock at last slips out of the angel––still doesn’t want to move, not even when Castiel shifts and grunts beneath him.

Dean lifts his head to see Castiel looking at him, eyes half-lidded and bleary in the aftermath of physical bliss. Dean takes some pity on his angel––peels the tape back slow and works the sock free with gentle fingers. He massages Castiel’s jaw a moment before moving onto the handcuffs. The blood is still red and glistening where it dribbled on the pillow, but Castiel’s wrists have already healed.

“Wait here,” Dean murmurs, places a kiss to Castiel’s forehead before sliding off the bed and shuffling toward the bathroom. He returns with a damp towel and a glass of water––urges Castiel to drink while he wipes them both down like thoroughbreds after a race.

Castiel sets the glass on the bedside table, flips the pillow so it’s blood side down, and settles backwards with a soft sigh. In another moment Dean takes his place beside his angel––wraps his arm around a slender waist and leans in for a kiss.

And Dean is already in love with the shape of Castiel’s mouth, with his taste and the subtle spice on his breath, the feel of chapped lips begging for attention, the pink tongue that pushes and presses against his own.

“Now who has a dirty mouth?” Castiel murmurs sleepily against Dean’s lips, and Dean has to smile before he reaches over to switch off the lamp and settle into the darkness with his lover.

END.


End file.
